From Father to Dad
by Guacameowle
Summary: It's been three months since his son was born & it's finally time Jumin becomes a dad.


"What do I do if he cries?" His voice was bordering on frantic.

"You hold him, feed him, burp him, change him, whichever is necessary." Your voice was bordering on irritation.

Why you were the one irritated he couldn't understand. It wasn't like he was the one ditching out on parental responsibilities to go watch some insipid musical performed by some equally insipid ponytailed idiot.

"Perhaps, we should wait for another night?" He tried to not let his hesitancy at being entirely alone with his son for the first time waver his voice.

"Jumin, it's only for a few hours. You're his dad, it'll be fine." Sometimes it seemed you had too much faith in him.

With a quick kiss to his cheek and a peck to the downy-headed infant precariously held in his hands, you were gone, sing-songing a "I love you both! See you later!" before jovially prancing out the door.

He stared at the closed door for almost a solid minute, mentally willing you to walk back through it.

No such luck.

He looked down at the infant held in his hands. Wide steel-grey eyes that matched his own stared up at him. Perhaps he was imagining things but was that skepticism in his son's eyes?

"I can do this. I can… take care of you." He didn't even believe himself… and it didn't help matters that his son decided to make a gurgling laughing noise in that exact moment. His own son, laughing at him.

He had to admonish himself though. His son was a little over three months old and he was just now taking care of him alone for the first time. He'd hoped to be a better father than this but if he had to admit it, he was scared. Scared of screwing him up, hurting him, disappointing him…

With a sigh he turned from the door, walking slowly back into a sitting area and looking around to try to figure out how to keep an infant entertained.

It'd be… irresponsible to just put him into a cage with a bunch of toys, right?

He shook his head at the thought.

He sat down in a chair, still holding his son in front him. What did you talk about with infants anyway? Certainly not capital gain, acquisitions, or mergers; at least not until he was 13…

"Would you even want to work with me?" In reply he got a giggle and spit bubbles, his son's tongue flailing around in his mouth as if trying to form words but only managing to drool.

He couldn't mask his look of disgust quick enough, his son seeing the grimace form on his face and violently reacting with a loud cry and tears streaming down his chubby cheeks.

He jumped up with his son still in his hands, "Please, don't cry! I'm sorry, I won't make that face again. It's just… you're… messy." Though his voice held a slight tone of disgust he shuffled his son into one arm, cradling the child closer to his body and using his now free hand to pull his pocket square from his suit to wipe and clean his son's face of drool and tears.

He found himself bobbing up and down gently for seemingly no reason, hoping the bouncing motion would sooth the child. Somehow, it worked. Soon his son was reduced to a few hiccups and sniffles, no longer shrieking and wailing.

With a sigh he stopped bouncing and deposited his, now soiled, kerchief into a pocket.

"I'm new at this too, you have to be patient with me…" His voice was hushed, afraid of bringing on further streams of tears. He found his fingers brushing back strands of fluffy hair from his son's forehead and wiping away streaks of salt from the tears.

Before he could pull his hand away, tiny fingers clasp one of his own, the other tiny hand swatting at his palm in uncoordinated movements.

"I guess I deserved that, huh?" More gurgles and coos in reply before his son promptly opened his mouth and pulled the finger he was holding past his lips and into his mouth, instantly suckling.

"Ah, hungry! That I know how to fix!" As gently as possible he pulled his finger from the slobbering mouth and briskly walked to the kitchen.

Bottles he'd done before. Bottles he could do.

Though he only had one hand free, he managed to make quick work of heating up a bottle all the while making light conversation.

"When you're older, I can make you strawberry pancakes too. How about that?" He knew it was foolish to expect a reply, but he still maintained eye contact when speaking to the child and nodded in confirmation upon receiving a series of coos.

Bottle finished. Remove excess air. Test on wrist. Insert in baby's mouth.

He breathed a sigh of relief that he'd managed to finish preparing the bottle before his son's hunger pains got the better of them both, possibly leaving the _both of them_ crying in the kitchen.

He leant against the counter, ankles crossed and relaxed as he watched his son eat, lips and cheeks working overtime to inhale the milk rapidly.

Burping came next. Towel thrown over suited shoulder. Tilt baby upright. Soft pats on the back. Gentle bouncing.

See, he could be a good father.

Unfortunately, his son had yet to understand the importance of aiming… or Armani suits.

So, he could be an good father with some extra expensive dry cleaning bills…

Awkwardly holding his arm elevated to prevent any of the milky substance sliding down his shoulder from dripping onto the floor, he hastily made his way to his en suite. He'd have to clean them both up.

It was a struggle getting his suit jacket off while shuffling his son from one arm to the other. Laying the soiled suit on the counter, stain up, he began searching around for something to clean with.

It was then he realized, he'd never cleaned anything a day in his life other than himself. Where were cleaning supplies kept? What could he even use on a suit?

Perhaps he should focus on cleaning his son first, but where were the baby uh… cleaning supplies? The rush of accomplishment he had felt at managing to feed his own child diminished once he realized he had no idea where the wipes _to clean_ his own child were.

"I'll get better at this." Was he trying to convince his son or himself?

He looked at his shower and then his son. Shower. Son. He'd never bathed him alone before… and you had always done it in a weird shaped bucket in the sink.

He needed to shower himself, would it be so bad if he just…

Mind made up he began to once again rotate his son back and forth in his arms, divesting himself of his clothing. It took longer than it would have had he just set the boy down but he found himself loath to free him from his arms. This was the longest he'd gone with holding him, being the solo parent for the time being.

Once naked he set to work on the onesie clothing his boy. It was a silly looking outfit, but at least the cats on it were acceptable. He remembered the look of disgust on Zen's face the first time he held the boy who was, at the time, wearing this exact onesie.

He'd have to buy more cat themed clothing. Perhaps, some with stripes as well.

He found himself smiling at the thought as he gently removed the clothing and dropped it to the floor in a pile with his own. He pulled a towel from a nearby bin and set it on the counter and laid his son on it to remove his diaper.

It seemed his boy was intent on making a fool of his father all evening, in retribution for the grimace earlier, for no sooner had he removed the diaper a spray of urine hit his chin and trickled down his bare chest.

A shout left him, child kicking his legs and giggling at the funny noises his father was making, as he scrambled to swing a corner of the towel up prevent any further damage.

At least he wasn't still wearing the Armani.

"You're punishing me. I don't like these games." Wiggling hands and kicking legs were his reply.

Now he desperately needed a shower. Scooping up his, now naked and empty-bladdered, son he stepped into the shower and turned the water to warm, turning his back so the spray hit himself directly.

Slowly he eased himself under the spray further and further, allowing the cascading stream to slip down his front and ease onto his son's skin. Tiny hands flailed around, slapping against his chest splashing the water.

While his son splashed and slapped against him, he attempted to watch himself with one free arm, paying extra attention to his chin and chest. Washing his hair was easy with one hand. He even managed to bring some of the suds atop his son's head & swirl the fluffy wisps around until they all accumulated into one spike at the center of his small head.

Suddenly, he was laughing. He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the absurdity of him attempting to bathe his son in the shower. Maybe it was the funny looking soap hat the child was now sporting. Maybe it was a combination of both.

The laughter had his son halting his splashing, looking up at the foreign noise echoing in the shower. His laughter settled down after several moments. Little fingers reached up and splayed against his lips as if asking what the noise was.

He mumbled past the fingers covering his lips, "Ah, should I do that more often?"

As if to say yes, those little fingers curled, small nails scraping against his lip, "You make a good argument."

He smiled and pressed a quick little series of kisses against the tiny fist on his lips before turning away to reach for the lavender baby soap.

To say it was hard to wash a happy, splashing, slippery, wet baby was an understatement but somehow he, a renowned corporate heir with no real previous baby-experience aside from baby-making to his name, managed it. He'd even managed to rinse off all the soap without bringing on any tears. It wasn't enough of an accomplishment to win him any father-of-the-year awards, but his still happy son in his arms was reward enough.

He began to relax. His was clearly doing something right. There weren't any more tears. Maybe he could be a good fath-… dad.

He wanted to be a good _dad_. A dad his son could trust. A dad his son could come to with any problem without fear. A dad who would listen to him. A dad who expressed his love more freely. A dad who had more time for him.

It would take some time and practice, but he thought he could grow to be a good dad.

Quick towel-off. No more urine-mishaps when a diaper was placed. Raspberry kisses on a soft tummy. More giggles and laughter. Another cat onesie.

It was the giant yawn and slow blinking eyes that signaled him that it might perhaps be bedtime. Despite the numerous security cameras installed in his son's room, he didn't want to be away from him. What if something happened and he didn't get to the room in time? With no one else home to help, he dared not risk it. No, it was best to have his son in the same room.

He made his way into his bed, leaning against the headboard and laying the child on his chest. One hand supporting the child and the other rubbing circles on his back, just like he'd seen you do many times.

He didn't know where it came from, but he found himself humming a tune. A remnant of his childhood? A faint memory of a nanny or… his own mother? He didn't recall any words. He didn't even know if he was humming the entirety of the song or just a portion on loop.

It seemed to do the trick though, because soon enough his son's eyes stayed closed, breathing even and slow, little lips wiggling in sleep as if suckling a bottle even in dreams.

Before having met you, he didn't think he could love someone, but now having a child… he didn't know he could love someone _so much_.

It was terrifying and awe-spiring all at once.

He looked down at his son. _His_ son. Someone he'd help create. It was a part of him; he just hoped it was the _better_ parts of him.

He would do anything for this small child in his arms. This boy would grow up to want for nothing. He'd never question if he was loved and cherished. He'd grow up to be whomever he wanted to be, no expectations.

Gingerly, he pressed his lips to the soft head leaning against him and inhaled the clean scent.

"I'll say it often so you never forget. I'll protect you. I'll always be on your side. I love you."

He whispered it a few more times before letting his own eyes slip shut and falling into dreams of his happy family.


End file.
